


Dancing With a Stranger

by Ecrivaine



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Edward Nygma, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Crushes, Dancing, Dress Up, Falling In Love, Gay Oswald Cobblepot, Gotham City - Freeform, Gotham City Police Department, Healing, Heartbreak, Love, M/M, Masks, Mystery, Rejection, masquerade au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:54:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25340440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ecrivaine/pseuds/Ecrivaine
Summary: Leaning forward, Oswald was about to set the crumpled flyer ablaze, but the darkness of the eyes behind the mask on the paper stopped him, catching him before he made a grave mistake. There was no doubt in his mind that his enemies would be attending his masquerade, trying to look out for his short-comings to exploit them, the budding crime lord should have known better than to assume he could rest on such a night! His rivals were hungry, starving, rabid animals looking for anything at all they could sink their corrupt teeth into. Oswald was safe enough when he assumed the underdog position, but since his leap up the ranks, he was much more of a target. A red 'X' was painted on his back the night he had vocalized his victory, screaming to the wild sea of Gotham that he was the city's new king.
Relationships: Kristen Kringle/Edward Nygma, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma, Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	Dancing With a Stranger

A tense silence swept over the humble apartment. The colors of the vacant furniture muted by the grime caught within the confines of fabric. The windows let dull starlight illuminate the loneliness that entangled a draft floating from room to room like smoke. The darkness of the shadows and old rusted pipes running the length of the walls made the depressed air of the room dense and suffocating. The flames in the aged and traditional fireplace danced a melancholic waltz, the bodies of pure heat wrapping around each other step by step in order to avoid the chill of the evening. Their movements reflected clearly into turquoise gems, making the hurt in those teary eyes more noticeable. The only thing keeping the dust around the apartment company was the deflated form of the new club owner. Greasy black hair, as well as the angles cut into pale, freckled skin, were highlighted by the moonlight streaming in. Lint nestled into the black fabric of a moderately expensive suit, taking advantage of the figure's stillness as they stared lifelessly at the flames burning brighter before them.

Everything from the cold draft to the dust reminded Oswald why he was alone, why he was sitting in his beloved mother's apartment while the woman was away for the night, rather than being at his new club to ensure it was running smoothly. All the events that led him to where he was could be traced back to one man: Jim Gordon. The love and hate Oswald harbored for the detective astounded him, never before had one man alone been able to provoke such strong emotions within him. Whenever the detective was around, Oswald's pupils would dilate, his heartbeat would start to hammer in his chest and his thoughts would begin to spiral in panic, creating a whirlwind of insecurities and intrusive thoughts Oswald would usually ignore. He would hope Jim wouldn't see his cheeks flush when the two were in close proximity, he hoped Jim wouldn't catch on to the flirtatious lilt that coated his words when it was just the two of them. The daydreams Oswald would catch himself falling into would be ones of pure romance half the time, from tooth-rotting domestic bliss to passion-filled, lustful fantasies. The other half of the time, Oswald would hope that Jim noticed the embers growing into flames of anger in his eyes. Oswald would pray that the detective would pick up on the growl in his voice as a warning during some of their less than friendly altercations. The teeth-baring, the shoving, the fighting, Oswald would get hooked on the other's anger, determined to match that passionate hatred when he could. He'd held himself back at the start of their rivalry, but the ropes that cradled his anger were very slowly becoming frayed and unraveling. Oswald would spend the other half of his time on his own thinking about ways to kill the other, ways to draw the other's blood after making it boil. He would sacrifice anything to hear the detective beg for his life. Oswald often pondered on what it would look like if the tables were turned for once if Jim were the one being held at his mercy. Would Jim break down into tears, or would he force himself to grit his teeth until it was over? Would he attempt to bargain for his life, or would he let Oswald take it? How prettily would the blood from his cuts contrast with his skin? More questions presented themselves as Oswald let his mind travel on, picturing all the ways he wanted to break the detective down and tear him apart piece by agonizing piece. Of course, the other questions he had pertained to what type of torture would crack the strong-willed detective's resolve first. Would he have to attack the detective's friends and make him watch? Or, could Oswald simply isolate Jim from the rest of the world and disintegrate his resolve down one excruciating slice to the skin at a time? As endless and thrilling as those thoughts were, Oswald knew better than to act any of them out. He wasn't high enough in the food chain to grant his darker inspirations free reign. But, that day was coming, he knew it.

Though, as he looked down at the rejected invitation in his hand, his own blood was set simmering. All the backaches from being shoved into brick walls, all the pain his heartfelt from the betrayal of shakey trust and rejection, it all flooded back to him, crashing over him one freezing tidal wave after another. The tears the man had spilled into his pillowcase, the number of glasses the man had smashed in a weak attempt to quell his own anger, it made him wonder how many more times he would need to learn his rival wasn't interested in a partnership for him to leave the rocky relationship alone. As much as he didn't want to admit it, the detective had a magnetizing aura around him, one that Oswald would find himself being pulled into time and time again. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much Oswald tried to refuse his heart's yearning, he was sent back to the detective all over again after each confrontation.

The criminal, in his weakest of times, wished he could be someone else, if only for a day. What he wouldn't give to forget _James Gordon_ and find another to capture his interest. He often wondered what his life would be like if he could wear a mask, one that would erase the 'Oswald Cobblepot' name and forge another. No longer would he have to play the part of a loyal snitch, gone would be the dangers of social climbing for survival, and the blood on his hands could finally be rid of. At the thought of that fantasy, Oswald would often scoff and shake his head. Though the man was nothing if not creative, and those thoughts had sparked his next business experiment. He'd tried to appeal to a different type of audience, but the Mohawks, goth stained clothing and spiked wrist bands weren't a flattering image for his new club. After working so hard to kill the first of his enemies, Oswald had wanted to eradicate any traces Fish Mooney had left on her club. He wanted to replace the air with an atmosphere that spoke more of him. The formal suits, the mystery behind him and the threat he posed were all aspects of himself he aimed to paint the walls of the club with, and thus, a masquerade was his next experimentation. Of course, he wouldn't be there to witness how well the idea would pay off. After having Jim crumple the flyer back into his hands, Oswald figured it was best to give himself the night off to lick at his wounds. His pride would fix itself in due time. Once he was recovered, he was sure he would find himself galloping back to the detective with a new incentive to bring the two of them closer. 

Leaning forward, Oswald was about to set the crumpled flyer ablaze, but the darkness of the eyes behind the mask on the paper stopped him, catching him before he made a grave mistake. There was no doubt in his mind that his enemies would be attending his masquerade, trying to look out for his short-comings to exploit them, the budding crime lord should have known better than to assume he could rest on such a night! His rivals were hungry, starving, rabid animals looking for anything at all they could sink their corrupt teeth into. Oswald was safe enough when he assumed the underdog position, but since his leap up the ranks, he was much more of a target. A red 'X' was painted on his back the night he had vocalized his victory, screaming to the wild sea of Gotham that he was the city's new king. The pack of power-hungry wolves in his wake would naturally take that declaration as a challenge, he should have known better- He did know better. As quickly as panic began to take over, it halted, leaving Oswald blinking. If his experiment failed, he wouldn't be able to try a second attempt at risk of being labeled a 'one-trick pony' among other losses, so if he really was yearning for a different life, tonight was his night to take that chance, he wouldn't get another. Standing from his chair, he limped over to his room, hands ready to grab the handles of his wardrobe and fling it open.

Thankfully, though much to Oswald's annoyance at the time, his henchmen had gifted him with a suit and matching mask to wear to his club's event, commenting about how regal the outfit would make him look once he put it on. Initially, Oswald was going to throw the suit away as soon as he was out of view from his henchmen but decided ultimately to take the clothing home instead. It didn't take being a master in the arts of manipulation to know that too much disrespect soiled any relationship, despite how dumb the men below him were. A small place in his heart was warmed at the thought though. He couldn't deny, it was nice to have someone other than his treasured mother look out for him and buy things with him in mind. Carefully taking the suit out of the wardrobe, he took the plastic protection off of the hanger, taking his time to admire the suit fully. He'd given it a glance, but as his fingers dragged across the material of the blazer, he decided it would be a pity if he didn't wear the outfit at least once, further fueling his escapism fantasy for the night. Remembering how hopeful Gabe looked, he thought it at least somewhat fair to humor him. Before dressing up, he sat down at his vanity, staring at his reflection. The round mirror before him showed him everything that made him, him. His freckles that scattered across his nose bridge and cheeks, his dark eye bags that framed his piercing blue-green eyes, even the edge of his sharp features. If he were really going to escape himself, he would have to erase everything.

Slim fingers dragged a pale foundation from one of his drawers to begin. Ever since childhood, he always had a fascination with make-up. His mother would let him experiment in moderate amounts until he was doing her make up for her in his teen years. It turned into a passion of his, one that he hid from others out of fear of mockery and riddicule. Coating the bristles of his brush with foundation, he stippled it all over his face, taking care to not miss a single spot. He dug his brush into the crevacies of his face, making sure to get an even coverage down the sides of his nose and over his eyes. Despite having a mask covering most of his face, the mask would have to be lifted at the stroke of midnight, revealing his true identity to whoever's arms he could end up in. Out of fear he could potentially end up enjoying himself and not leave the venue early, Oswald wanted his face to be perfect for whoever could end up seeing it. Next was his setting powder, which he applied to his face generously. Despite his face feeling stiff, he knew it would be worth it in the end. He then reached for a countor and highlighter pallette he'd had in his posession for a while, swiping different brushes across his face in different spots. The tip of his nose, along his nose bridge, below his brows, his cupid's bow and his cheeks would all be hit with a tap of highlighter, while his cheekbones and jawline would appear even sharper with the aid of a little powerdered shadow beneith them. Leaning back and turning his head, he narrowed his eyes and took in every detail he could. Once he was sure that his highlight was shimmery enough, he moved on to the next, and arguably more fun, part of his routine, his eyes. Since his suit and mask made up a black and white number, the idea of using any colour on his eyelids was instantly rejected, replaced in favour of a black smokey eye, which would push out his strangley coloured eyes even more. With eyeliner in a sharp wing to bring out his eyeshape, followed by mascara to give his lashes more of a spot light, he was almost done. The final step was what shade to paint his lips with. Overlinning was an obvious must, but the shade of his lips would either pull the whole look together or break it apart entirely. Resting a hand on his set cheek, he hummed as he used his other hand to line up his collection. His mother usually favored a red lip, but with the black and white of his outfit, a red lip would be far too loud of Oswald's liking. He eliminated every other colour out of his collection, rolling black, purple, green and pink colours off to the side. His choices were decevingly simple. He could either: Choose a light natural lip and risk his eyes being pushed out too much, or, he could choose a darker natural lip and take attention away from his eyes. A few glances up to his mirror helped him eventually. He decided to settle on a darker lip, perfering the way the darker colour on his mouth matched the darkness around his eyes. It also contrasted well against his pale, now flawless skin. As he stared into the mirror, his eyes began to swirl up a dream.

As Oswald danced with his mystery partner, he hadn't even noticed the time flying by him. There was no one else on the dance floor aside from him and his masked heartthrob as far as he was concerned. The man in the mask held him with such strong arms, glided with him on the wooden pannels at their feet and gripped Oswald's hands tightly yet sweetly as he twirled the shorter man around. The smile that lined Oswald's painted lips was a real one, a genuine smile, one he hadn't worn in years. For the first time, in a very long time, his heart, head, and body were all agreeing that this man, whoever he might be, was the one. The dance stopped, their slow steps coming to a halt as the crowd around them started to chant. While everyone else wore an excited expression, Oswald felt a deepening pit of dread in his stomach. 

"Five!" Oswald's heart began to beat harder in his chest. He'd spent far too long in the building, he hadn't planned to stay until the end. 

"Four!" He felt his palms grow sweaty, his breathing starting to catch in his throat. 

"Three!" The man in the mask smiled down at him, already gripping the bottom of his own mask as he chanted with the crowd. 

"Two!" The smaller of the two wasn't smiling anymore. He felt as if he would burst. There was no way out, no running away. He couldn't follow in Cinderella's footsteps even if he wanted to, no missing glass slipper could save him when he was so close to the end of the night. 

"One!" In sync, everyone tore off their masks. A sea of gasps and chuckles followed the reveal, fingers pointed in different directions as strangers began to recognize their friends. All the chatter faded as Oswald's eyes widened. His own mask was removed, but so was his mystery dance partner's. Standing before him, was none other than Jim Gordon. The detective wore a warm smile, cheeks dusted with pink and he cupped Oswald's face, drawing the smaller man closer until- 

Oswald coughed, snapping himself awake from his daydream. That _man_ wasn't going to be anywhere near his club, Oswald reminded himself. There was no use yearning for a man who woudldn't return his affections. Shaking off the awkwardness of his thoughts, Oswald grabbed his hair brush and shook his head. 

He back combed his hair as usual, working with the layer of grease to make his dark locks look intentionally shiny under the light. He then proceeded to get dressed, putting the suit on gently and putting on the mask, making sure he picked the best matching shoes before he turned and checked himself over in the mirror. He had to admit to himself: he cut a fine figure. With his suit finally put together, he paired his clothing with a sensible yet platformed shoe, giving him -not only a few inches more height,- but ankle support as well. Even if he couldn't put on a mask and be someone else for a day, who was to say he couldn't live that dream for a single night? His route through the backstreets of Gotham was already mapped out in his mind, the path he would take would lead him into his club through the backdoor. From there, he could lurk on the balcony and try to unmask a few of his enemies before they exposed themselves. 


End file.
